A Benthic Silence
by Salser
Summary: Written for the following prompt: post-Destroy ending, Shepard is horrifically injured. With no limbs, and only the sense of touch to guide her, how will she cope? One-shot.


**A/N: well hello, there. Sorry I've been AWOL – I will hopefully be able to return to my unfinished stories over the next week or so, now that the life dust has settled somewhat. In the meantime, have a suitably depressing one-shot, which is the result of a prompt elsewhere which caught my attention. Thanks as usual to my prunes, T.A. Blackwell and tayg, whose reminders are the only reason I haven't forgotten about FFN ;)**

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A strange, tingly sensation flutters across my face, earning itself an irritated twitch of my cheek and an exasperated swat. Flies are such a fucking nuisance; never mind Cerberus and the Reapers, the insects can disrupt my quietude and tranquility all by themselves. Much to my ire, however, there is no assuaging sting as my irascible might bears down upon the bête noire of my torpor, no fleeting rush as the stagnant air is resentfully perturbed.

Come to think of it, there is really… nothing. The silence is roaring, inundating my hearing in its crushing deluge. Ironically, I try to quiet it, listening raptly in furious concentration, devouring every imperceptible, imagined murmur, rustle or whisper. I may as well be in the vacuum of space; the experience is hauntingly familiar, as my mind flickers back to that day. That day, almost three years ago, when what had become our home splash-painted the emptiness of space a brilliant shade of orange. I remember seeing the vehement wrath with which the Normandy noiselessly exploded; it felt so surreal, like watching the biggest special effects scene of the latest blockbuster; fire and brimstone raining down on mute.

The damp fog of sleep is clearing now; as I realise that I cannot even perceive the calming, rhythmical hum of your breathing, your ambrosial, luscious scent. My eyes shoot open; where are you? I have become accustomed to waking in your assuring arms, your harbouring embrace. To not feel that now… it is as if I have only half-awakened, bereft of a part of… me. The darkness is suffocating; all glimmer of light has been snuffed out, strangled by its relentless tendrils. I blink for a moment in confusion; our room is usually bathed by the gentle glow of moon and starlight. I know this because it allows me to lie in your arms, nuzzling the crook of my neck against your supple skin, mesmerised by your resplendent allure as you sleep.

I wait for the darkness to clear, for my eyes to adjust; but, in my feverish desire to feel the coolness of your touch against my skin, your breath against my ear, your saccharine taste in my parched mouth, I reach out, drawing you into me. But my fingers; they grasp at a void, at oblivion. There is emptiness all around me – it seems everything bar the surface I am lying on has been annihilated.

My heart is thumping in my chest as I strain to widen my eyes, to repel the brimming tide of obscurity. I shoot up in bed, appealing to all my senses to please, please help me make sense of what the hell is going on. My hands come crashing towards my face, a frantic effort to lash away the curtain over my eyes, to slap away this deafening silence. My chest heaves, my breath coming in a rabid frenzy; I try to shoot up in bed, before a precipitous awareness of… _this_ cracks me across the face.

I cannot hear my heaving gasps. My face… I cannot feel my face. The ghostly echoes of my limbs, the phantoms in my mind which claw at my unseeing eyes… why I can feel… something against my back, but nothing against my arms, against… Oh God, my legs. In vain hope, I try to turn onto my side, draw my knees up, curl into a ball and damn this emptiness to the realm of forgotten dreams. But my broken body is recalcitrant, and my desperate commands go unheeded.

What is happening to me? The last thing I remember is… ecstasy. The reassuring weight of your body on mine, the tingling along my skin at every tantalising point of contact, your warm, wet lips trailing sweet nothingness along every sensitive, yearning spot on my neck. So much… driving me over the edge, your velvety hands, at once gratifyingly everywhere and maddeningly nowhere. I do not know whether to concentrate on every pleasurable caress, every aching moan, or my heightening need for release. Then I realise that I actually cannot concentrate, even if I wanted to.

Oh God, you are everywhere. I feel a surge coursing through my body, the familiar ache, hear the incoherent cries from our mouths. Then. A flash, a jolt, a rude slap across my face. So close… so fucking close! Instead of your fingers, my face is ridden with shrapnel and dirt and grime. Blood, seeping from my side, pain, wracking every fibre of my broken being. Bullets, rubble, red fire igniting the sky. Then…

Darkness.

Benthic. That is probably the only word I can use to describe how I perceive the world at the moment. The feeling of being in the barren, nether regions of the lowest point of an ocean, where no light can pierce and no sound can echo. Resigned in my crushing cognizance, I settle back, stilling my breathing. If I still had eyes, my vision would be swimming under the cruel mist of tears. Could I hear, my agonising shrieks would fill the air.

But there is only oblivion for me.

A tingle. No; it is just my imagination playing cruel tricks on me again, a mirage in an endless, arid expanse. But then… there it is again; this time, firmer, fuller, kinder. That touch on my cheek, the zephyr of air as that hand comes to rest on my face… its gentle, sheltering weight. Unseeing, unhearing, unsmelling, I smile, confident that I am safe.

You are here…

Now…

Always.


End file.
